


Unspoken, Untouched

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel's Hands, M/M, Mutual Pining, Neanderthal Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2269437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel can't quit writing poetry.  Dean can't stop thinking about Castiel's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken, Untouched

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for [Hellatus Prompt Fic Tuesday](http://itfeltpurefic.tumblr.com/hellatus) on my Tumblr blog.

Even with centuries of practice, Castiel still hasn’t matched the sheer level of skill he saw among Neanderthal poets.

Partly it’s a matter of language, tone, and performance. Neanderthal poets were singers with pure, throaty voices he’s never been able to match. No other language, living or dead, contains all the right sounds or scansion. Also, Castiel prefers to write his poetry down, sounding it out in his skull and his eyes and his mouth while he records it on paper with a pen, or in the air with a finger, or even in the dust with a pointed stick.

He’ll admit that his words are good. That they can intoxicate. But oh, the highest bar is so high. Father help him, it’s ruined him for everything else.  
It doesn’t stop him writing when inspiration boils up in him, filling his throat with the desire to emulate those lost singers. He sublimates it into image and metaphor, scribbling pretty nonsense then refining it, pass by pass, until it achieves a suitable level of coherency in the language best suited to the object of his focus.

For Dean, his chosen language is chiefly English. Tremendous vocabulary, English. Much of it borrowed, stolen, and repurposed, but so many useful words. So many shades of meaning. So many games to play with sounds and spelling.

Dean’s eyes, for example, are not green. They are a forest. His eyes are soft moss, rich humus, fresh leaves, and rough bark. They are clear as a cold stream. They are sharp like a falcon’s talons, and as beautiful as a thrush’s song, and as subtle as…

Ugh. Subtle birds? Birds are sneaky. Not subtle. He has yet to find a subtle bird. Castiel squeezes his own eyes closed and rubs at them. This is impossible.

It’s a wasted enterprise anyway. Dean is, after all these years, still entirely oblivious to Castiel’s overtures. He’s sacrificed everything, destroyed millennia of prophecy, saved his life, saved Sam’s life, fallen again and again, brought him things, taken things away, exchanged looks and long touches, watched over him in his sleep.

It’s useless. Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, the single being in the universe Castiel loves as much as he loves his Father — even possibly, terrifyingly more — is unmoved. Disinterested. Aloof.

Unrequited affection is, at least, powerful fuel for poetry.

# # #

It’s fucking indecent how hot Castiel’s hands are when they hold a pen.

No, scratch that. Castiel’s hands are fucking indecent holding anything. A paper cup from the drive-thru. A gun. A steering wheel. And it’s not like Cas is stingy with those fuckers. Oh no. He’s always touching and getting up into people’s personal space.

Of course, it’s all platonic. Angels, man. Grace ‘em up and they’re cold and awkward. They don’t get subtle come-ons or end of the world speeches. Hell, Dean even tried to get Cas laid once and it ended in tears. Laughing tears, mostly (except for Chastity, that poor girl), but tears still.

Balthazar was probably the exception that proved the rule. Well, and Gabriel, but Gabriel’s kind of his own category of fucking odd.

Still, the observation stands. Anna only wanted him when she was human, and with the exception of Meg — which, uh, let’s just gloss that too because Dean’s still trying to figure that out — Cas ever only really showed an interest in sex and affection when he was mortal.

Angel juice is like some kind of magic boner killer.

Which is a damn shame, because those hands? They would look damn fine on Dean’s cock. Or hell, Cas’ cock while Dean watches. Or any part of either of them as long as Dean gets to show up for the party. Hell, he’ll take care of himself. It literally doesn’t matter. He just…well, he looks at Cas and whole parts of him go stupid.

Not just his dick, either. His head goes dumb. His chest aches. He spends whole sleepless nights wondering if being pressed against Cas would maybe help him relax. His bed’s big enough for two.

But, you know, appearances. He’ll dog the guy about personal space and bitch about the time Cas showed up naked except for a swarm of bees. And he’ll daydream about those broad, strong hands, and all the ways they could take him apart.


End file.
